


Misunderstandings and Delusions

by Dodoa



Series: Aftermath [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Imaginary Mary kicks John's Arse, John-centric, Not A Fix-It, Self-Hatred, Songfic, Stream of Consciousness, again as always, as always, or Self-Loathing as Mary would say, or at least very little comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-30 23:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12119220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dodoa/pseuds/Dodoa
Summary: If Sherlock had any sense, he wouldn’t want to talk to John ever again and John deserved every bit of that rejection.What happened between Culverton Smith's arrest and Sherlock's birthday, told from John's POV and carried along by the lyrics of "Nobody can save me" by Linkin Park.





	1. Chapter 1

_I’m dancing with my demons._

After Greg had left with the arrested Smith in tow, John stayed until Sherlock fell asleep. It didn’t take long. They didn’t talk. John didn’t know what he’d hoped for, but it was clear that he wasn’t going to get it, not tonight.

“You should stay with him.” Mary was back, well her apparition, ever disapproving. She was right, John didn’t want to leave the hospital room. He knew it was an irrational fear, now that Smith had been caught, but it didn’t feel safe, leaving Sherlock behind. However, he’d told the babysitter he’d pick Rosie up… Shit two hours ago, so he didn’t have much of a choice.

“I have to pick Rosie up, and return the car, you know that.” He probably wasn’t welcome here anyway.

“So, you’re coming back once you’ve done that?”

“I… That’s not…”

“See, that’s not why you’re really leaving.” He didn’t want to discuss this.

“I have work in the morning, I already missed half a day because of this. I can’t…”

“Yes, you can! Call in, tell them your family emergency is taking longer to resolve than you thought. Stop making up excuses.”

John closed the door to Sherlock’s room leaving Mary’s disapproving eyes behind on the other side.

_I’m hanging off the edge._

“But you are coming back tomorrow.” Mary appeared in the passenger seat as John was starting the car.

When John didn’t answer, she continued: “You can stop by in your lunchbreak or after work, before you pick up Rosie.” John stayed silent and Mary went on either not noticing or ignoring how John’s grip on the wheel got more tense with every word: “Or pick her up first and take her with you, then you can stay longer.”

John pressed his lips together and kept his eyes resolutely on the road, he’d done enough damage today, he wasn’t going to start yelling at his wife on top of that, even if she wasn’t real.

Mary kept urging him from the passenger seat until John installed the baby seat in her place.

_Storm clouds gather beneath me._

The drive to Baker Street was mercifully silent. Rosie was asleep and Mary didn’t return until they’d arrived. It gave John time to think things through. Following Mary’s advice was tempting. Visiting Sherlock at the hospital, monitoring his recovery and pretending that all of this wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t assaulted his best friend, it was the closest he could realistically get to what he really wanted, to turn back time and undo it, redo, do better. He’d been fucking things up for so long though, he didn’t even know how far to turn back the clock. Not that it mattered, life didn’t work that way.

He couldn’t carry on like nothing happened. If Mary’s message and Sherlock’s reaction to it had told him anything it was that he wasn’t good for Sherlock. And that wasn’t even counting the assault. If Sherlock had any sense, he wouldn’t want to talk to John ever again and John deserved every bit of that rejection.

Which meant he couldn’t just visit Sherlock like nothing had happened. If he did that, he’d force Sherlock to make that decision when he was at his most vulnerable and far more likely to forgive John, which was an advantage John didn’t deserve.

“So you’ll just abandon him?” Mary greeted him when he opened the car door.

John deliberately didn’t look at her while he lifted the baby seat from the passenger side, walked up to the door and rang the bell.

When Mrs Hudson opened, John left Mary behind on the pavement.

_Waves break above my head._

John hadn’t meant to stay. He’d planned on dropping off the car key and then taking a cab home, but Mrs Hudson had had other plans and wouldn’t take no for an answer. That’s how he found himself in his old room with a pile of fresh bedding and Rosie’s travel cot.

“You’re not still blaming him, are you?” Mary asked as soon as Mrs Hudson had left the room.

John sank down on the side of the bed, resting his head in his hands.

“I – I don’t know.” He really didn’t. He didn’t _want_ to blame Sherlock, but… well there was always a “but”, wasn’t there?

“Seriously, after what he did?” Mary rounded on him. John didn’t look at her, he was too tired for this conversation. He wished she would just leave him alone for a couple of minutes.

“I’m not saying he did it on purpose,” John tried to placate, “or that I’m not forgiving him, but look at the facts.”

“The facts,” Mary scoffed. “You don’t even know what happened, you weren’t there.”

Her accusatory tone made John look up, but Mary was gone. Somehow this was worse.

_Headfirst Hallucination,  
I wanna fall wide awake now._

As much as John didn’t want to listen to her, Mary was right. He didn’t know. He hadn’t been there.

He’d only come in when it was already too late, when the shot had already been fired. And he hadn’t been able to stand anyone else talking about it afterwards either, so he’d cut them off, or left the room when they tried to tell him about it until they’d stopped trying. Maybe it was time he asked.

John’s thumb hovered over Greg’s name for a long time before he worked up the courage to call. Courage that almost deserted him when the phone rang out and went to voicemail. There was no one else to call, though. Asking Sherlock would be cruel, regardless of the answer and there was no way he was asking Mycroft. And now that he’d started thinking about it he _needed_ to know.

“Greg, hi… uhm… could you call me back when you get this? Please?”

“Now, was that so hard?” Mary had appeared next to him on the bed. John could almost feel her hand on his back.

_Stared into this illusion._

Maybe he really had jumped to conclusions. It had all fit so well, though.

Mary asking if they were even. I got you shot, you got me shot.

Sherlock’s tentativeness, limiting himself to one text a day. Sherlock didn’t do tentative and he’d certainly never shown that he understood the concept of giving someone space. And it certainly wasn’t how he acted when he thought you should forgive him. A bomb threat would have been more like it. John had expected him to break into his home any day now when the texts had suddenly stopped, without warning. In hindsight, that had probably been when Sherlock had received Mary’s DVD, but back then it had seemed like an admission of guilt.

And Sherlock had said so himself: “I killed his wife.” It didn’t really get any clearer than that.

“Just because he’s blaming himself doesn’t mean he’s guilty,” Mary interrupted his thoughts. “You’re blaming yourself too after all, and you weren’t even there.”

“Shouldn’t have let you go alone,” John managed a tremulous smile in Mary’s direction. “But Sherlock isn’t like that, he doesn’t blame himself for things that aren’t his fault. Hell, Moriarty once blew up a whole block of flats in his name, 12 people died, and all Sherlock had to say about that was that technically he’d solved the case.”

“They were strangers, it’s different when it’s a friend. You of all people should know that.”

John was saved from having to answer by his ringing phone.

Greg.

Mary was looking at him expectantly. He couldn’t fail her. Not again.

_For answers, yet to come._

“Hi, Greg, thanks for…” John began, but the rest of the sentence got stuck in his throat.

“John, what do you need?” John almost made up some excuse when he noticed how tired Greg sounded, but he knew that, if he didn’t ask now, he never would.

“I was, uhm, wondering… Could you… Fuck. That day, at the aquarium, what happened? I didn’t come in until – until –.”

“John are you sure you want to do this now, I could…”

“I need to know, Greg, please.”

And Greg told him. How Sherlock had tried to draw the target away from Mary, to make himself the target and succeeded. How he’d done everything in his power, even risking being shot himself to protect Mary. And how he’d ultimately failed because Mary had decided to take that bullet for him.

“We’re even now, he saved my life, I saved his.” Mary whispered, taking the phone from John’s shaking hands.

_I chose a false solution._

John was pacing and fighting the urge to punch a wall and hating himself for that, among other things.

He felt sick with himself and his actions. Self-loathing indeed. Not that he hadn’t already felt this way before he’d learned the truth, but the new revelations had increased the feeling hundred-fold. If there had been at least some culpability on Sherlock’s part, it wouldn’t justify what John did, but it might have made moving forward possible. If Sherlock had known that it wasn’t his fault and had just been going along with the narrative for John’s sake, that still didn’t justify anything, but at least Sherlock would have known what he was doing, which made it more likely that all of it had been part of the plan, including the assault and Sherlock might forgive him. Not that the thought that Sherlock had known what John was capable of, and had still wanted to help him, at the expense of his own health didn’t make him sick, but the reality was even worse. Sherlock probably really thought it was his fault and John had only added to his misconception.

Mary was trying to talk to him, comfort him, but he didn’t deserve that comfort so he shut her out.

_But nobody proved me wrong._

Why had no one told him? If he’d known, he wouldn’t have treated Sherlock the way he did.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t tried to tell him, though. Molly had tried to defend Sherlock exactly once and John had blown up so spectacularly she hadn’t mentioned him again. That was also when he’d handed her that letter. He didn’t even remember what exactly he’d said, just that he’d looked for the harshest words he could find. He should probably tell Molly not to give it to Sherlock, just in case she still had it.

Greg had tried a couple times, and he’d timed his attempts better than Molly, not trying to force a conversation when John was already angry, but he’d given up too after a while, when it became clear that John didn’t want to listen.

Really everyone else had done their best, it was just John who hadn’t.

He probably wouldn’t have stopped Sherlock from relapsing anyway, because Mary had been right about one thing, John wouldn’t have reached out on his own and definitely not while Sherlock had still been texting him. Hell, Greg had had to threaten to break down the door before John had let him in.

He was the only one to blame here.

_Headfirst Hallucination._

Mary was trying to get him to sit back down, but he needed to… he needed to leave, he couldn’t stay at Baker Street. Not after what he’d done. He didn’t deserve the comfort his former home offered, or Mrs Hudson’s motherly fussing. He felt like he was intruding, like he wasn’t welcome here. He shouldn’t be. And he wouldn’t be once the inhabitants caught on to his true nature.

Mary was trying to convince him otherwise and it was tempting to give in, stay the night in his old room that was untainted by recent events, instead of his house where every room echoed with Mary’s absence. Maybe he’d be able to sleep for once.

Mary was beckoning him from the bed, but he turned away and called a cab.

_I wanna fall wide awake now._

He was done blaming others for his failings.

He was done taking the easy way out.

And he was done taking what he didn’t deserve.

Mary tried to convince him to stay until he closed the front door in her face.


	2. Chapter 2

_You tell me it’s alright._

John was spent. He’d fallen asleep in the cab, not really surprising in itself, except, that half hour had been the most he’d slept without alcoholic assistance since, well since. He’d woken up feeling even more tired and foggy than before and now he was trying to dig his housekey out one-handedly without putting Rosie’s car seat down, but his fingers were clumsy with sleep and shaky with the lack of it and he kept fumbling them.

Well, fuck the key! Fuck going home, where there were too many empty spaces, and where he’d only lie awake all night anyway! Fuck everything!

He couldn’t do it anymore.

“Sit down,” Mary intervened, before he could walk away into the night. He didn’t know what his plan had been, only that he didn’t want to ever see his own front door again. Mary’s voice brought back all the reasons he’d temporarily forgotten. All the reasons he couldn’t.

Rosie wasn’t dressed to stay outside for long, for one.

So, he obeyed. Sat down on the steps, his back to the door. He didn’t have to see it that way either. He tried to get his breathing under control, using Rosie’s sleeping face to ground himself.

He couldn’t fail her.

Once he’d centred himself enough, John fished the key out of his pocket. However, his key wasn’t the only thing in there, like it usually was, he’d felt something else in there, something cold and metallic he was sure he hadn’t put in there. He quickly unlocked the door and put Rosie to bed, then he reached into his pocket again.

Once he realised what he was looking at, John sank to the floor, his back to the door to Rosie’s room.

Mary was at his side in an instant and for once he didn’t try to shut her out.

_Tell me I’m forgiven tonight._

“That’s another recording device, like the one in your cane,” Mary stated the obvious.

“But what is it doing in your coat?” From the way she asked the question, John could tell that she already knew the answer. If he was being honest, he knew it too, but he let her continue anyway.

“Sherlock must have put it there, what did he say, three weeks ago?” John shook his head, that just wasn’t possible. Mary had to know that too, of course. She was just in his head after all.

“You would have noticed that, though, wouldn’t you?”

“Missed it when I got the cane,” John couldn’t help but point out. It wouldn’t do much to delay the inevitable conclusion, though.

“Once, twice, maybe even three times, yes, but for three weeks? I don’t think so.” She was right of course.

“So, he only put it in there today. Who knows when he really placed the one in your cane?” John buried his head in his hands, he didn’t want to listen anymore, he already knew where this was going, but Mary carried on relentlessly: “I bet you’d find more of them in a lot of things you might have brought him from Baker Street if things had gone differently. There wasn’t just one plan, no one can predict the future that well, not even Sherlock Holmes. There were contingencies. The one in your jacket: You put your foot down and tell him he’s in no state to work a case and he gets admitted, you stay with him, because you still trust his judgement and if Smith really is dangerous you don’t want him to be alone. You take off your jacket in his hospital room, but are lured away on a fool’s errand, so Smith can make his move, and you leave your jacket behind. That was probably the one Sherlock was hoping for.”

It was the version that should have happened. The version where John might just be worth the risk Sherlock had taken for him. He should have lived up to that expectation, but he hadn’t which once again proved that he wasn’t the kind of man everyone thought he was. He was worse. So much worse.

But Mary wasn’t done yet and her voice pulled him out of the downwards spiral his thoughts had taken: “Then why did he lie? Why tell you he knew everything in advance, when he didn’t?”

“He’s a show-off. Always was. You liked that about him.” John almost managed to smile at her through the threatening tears, but it came out as more of a grimace.

“Yes, he is,” Mary smiled back sadly, “but you asked if you were that predictable, and he said no. He wasn’t showing off.” John returned his face to his hands, unable to look Mary in the eye. Sherlock had never censored himself around John, he’d never spared John, or anyone else for that matter, the ugly truth when it was in his power to reveal it. The fact that he’d felt like he needed to do so now, that he didn’t feel safe telling John the truth spoke volumes about how much John had scared him.

For once Mary had come to a different conclusion than John though: “He was sparing you the truth, and why would he do that, if he didn’t want you in his life anymore?”

John stayed on the floor for the rest of the night, letting Mary’s advice wash over him.

“You have to fix this, John.”

_But nobody can save me now._

Mary was right. This was his mess and he was the one who had to fix it. Not Sherlock. Not anyone else. Just him.

He couldn’t expect others to save him any longer.

It didn’t matter, who was right about why Sherlock hadn’t told him about the contingency plans, whether it had been done out of mercy or fear. If fixing this meant rebuilding their friendship, John would do everything in his power to do that and if it meant making sure Sherlock was alright and then silently taking himself out of his life, then he’d do that too. As for himself, it was obvious which option he’d prefer, but what he wanted didn’t matter. He’d manage either way. He’d have to. Couldn’t have Sherlock blaming himself for this too.

He was going to fix this.

The next morning every bone in his body hurt from spending the night on the floor and his head was heavy with lack of sleep and unshed tears, but he could look Mary in the eye when he left for work, for the first time since. Since.

_I’m holding up a light._

The next week was too full to stop and think and John was grateful for it. Work in the morning, lunchbreak with Sherlock, Rosie in the evening, extra shifts on the weekend so he’d be able to get time off once Sherlock was out of hospital. He was worried his short visits might be sending the wrong message, but with the drive there and back his lunchbreak barely left him with ten minutes to spend with Sherlock and visiting hours were already over by the time he got off work. He probably could have shown up anyway and be let in, but he also needed to pick up Rosie and – really it was only cowardice. Ten minutes weren’t enough for the important conversations and that gave him an excuse not to start them. So, they didn’t talk. John didn’t know where to start. Smalltalk, even their version of it, felt wrong after what had happened. And Sherlock wasn’t starting any conversations either, so John spent his visits looking at Sherlock’s chart and otherwise sitting in silence, waiting for Sherlock to throw him out. Of course, it was completely possible that Sherlock was feeling too wretched to be in the mood for talking at all, but John couldn’t help but think that the silence was personal and he didn’t know how to break it.

Mary was at him, every day, every time he was visiting Sherlock: “Do better John.”

_Chasing out the darkness inside._

And she was right. He agreed with her every time he left the hospital and he swore to do better this time and actually talk every time he entered it. When he was there however, he dug up every excuse to postpone the conversation for one more day.

But he was trying.

And he was doing other things that were getting Mary’s approval. When Sherlock’s doctor suggested that he’d be willing to let him go sooner if there was someone keeping an eye on him at home, John jumped to the task. Two days later there was an online calendar set up, with the first week already full of entries. And he’d given himself an hour on the very first day, even though he technically couldn’t spare it. He’d be at least half an hour late to pick up Rosie and would probably lose his babysitter over it, she’d been threatening to quit if he was late again ever since he’d made her miss her date when he’d turned up two and a half hours late on that day. Sherlock had thoroughly vetted her, back when everything had been alright, so John was reluctant to lose her, but if he managed to fix things, Sherlock could do the same with the next one.

Mary had suggested that he should tell her to bring Rosie to Baker Street, but he didn’t want Rosie there in case things went badly and he didn’t want to manipulate Sherlock into forgiving him that way.

Mary had called him an idiot but subsided, “As long as you actually talk.”

_And I don’t want to let you down._

Talking wasn’t going well. Big surprise. When had talking ever gone well for him? There was a reason Ella had suggested that he should write things down, he was so bad at talking that even his therapist had given up on him. He’d been here for almost 40 minutes and nothing of substance had been said. He’d made tea twice and otherwise had let Sherlock talk. At least Sherlock was talking to him again, after days of silence at the hospital, this had to be a good sign.

Apart from the not talking about anything of substance part, things seemed to be going well until: “Oh, I do think I can last twenty minutes without supervision.”

And there it was, the rejection John had been waiting for. He’d almost allowed himself to hope that it wouldn’t come, but apparently, he’d been wrong about this too, like he seemed to be wrong about everything lately. Well, if Sherlock didn’t want him here, he couldn’t stay. He’d told himself that if his absence was what was needed to make things better for Sherlock, he’d leave even if it was the last thing he wanted to do. Obviously, he wouldn’t leave Sherlock alone completely, Mrs Hudson was just next door at Mrs Turner’s, he’d pop in and ask her to take over until Molly got here.

Mary was still urging him to talk, but he didn’t see the point. What would talking help if Sherlock had already decided? If he left now, he’d almost be on time to pick Rosie up and maybe he wouldn’t lose the sitter, which would be a small blessing considering that it didn’t look like Sherlock would be around to help pick out a new one. He said as much, just in case this rejection was just a temporary one, so Sherlock would know he wasn’t eager to leave. Instead he’d probably made Sherlock feel like a burden. He really was shit at talking.

And then Sherlock started talking about the case again and John realised that he wasn’t just shit at talking he’d also just failed some sort of test. John wasn’t sure what Sherlock had been trying to do when he sent him away, but it was clear that the intention hadn’t been to make him leave. And John had left anyway, well almost. He considered sitting back down, but what was the point? He’d already failed. He’d just fuck up again if he stayed.

When he turned to go again, Mary didn’t say a word.

_But only I can save me._

And then Sherlock asked if he was okay.

And that just –

It was Sherlock who –

It didn’t matter how John –

But Sherlock was waiting for an answer and John couldn’t lie to him like he did with everyone else. Even if that meant admitting that Mary’s plan hadn’t worked and that what Sherlock had done to save him had been in vain. Sure, he was functioning a bit better now, but that was just because he had to, the workload had increased and so had the stakes. It was sink or swim and sinking meant taking Sherlock down with him, so he’d bloody well swim, but that didn’t mean he was any closer to dry land.

It wasn’t Sherlock’s job to fix that though. He’d given John a reason to keep swimming and that was enough. John doubted that Sherlock would see it that way, though, especially if he was still blaming himself for Mary’s death. John should have disabused him of that notion a long time ago. John, do better, indeed.

It would be too little too late, now, but it needed to be said.

And then there was a text that gave him another excuse to stay for a bit longer and then there was a confession and John hadn’t meant to fall apart in front of Sherlock, had in fact expressly forbidden himself to do anything that might force Sherlock into something he didn’t want, but Sherlock rose to the challenge in a way that made it difficult to doubt his sincerity in wanting to rebuild their friendship. That’s what made John text Molly and ask her to pick Rosie up and meet them at the café instead of coming straight to Baker Street.

It didn’t fix things, but it was a start.

It gave him hope.

When he got home, for the first time since she died, Mary didn’t haunt him.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 is already written and just waiting to be edited, so it should be up soon.


End file.
